


The Fantastical Fiction of How One Lance McClain - Charming, Handsome, Single  - Realized that Neighbors Are Sometimes Best Left Alone

by perfchan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 90s AU, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Humor, Gay Disaster Keith (Voltron), Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, they are disasters together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Or, Alternatively,A Detailed Report Regarding the Events Surrounding the Long Awaited Introduction of Takashi Shirogane and Keith Kogane*A not-at-all-serious AU featuring bad beat poetry, 90s slang, coffeeshops, laundromats, annoying neighbors, and of course. Cats.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 103
Collections: Sheithlentines 2020





	The Fantastical Fiction of How One Lance McClain - Charming, Handsome, Single  - Realized that Neighbors Are Sometimes Best Left Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Akemichan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akemichan/gifts).



> Happy valentine’s day Akemi!   
> This fic is a gift for the sheithlentines 2020 exchange! 
> 
> I am 100% certain that by 'historical au' you did not mean the 90s, but hopefully I checked off some other boxes :> I really really hope you like this fic!! 
> 
> If anyone is new around here, welcome, my name is jacquline and my speciality is making Lance as annoying as possible LOL. so when I saw ‘external pov’ as a possible prompt, I was jazzed. I probably would have never written sheith in lance’s voice otherwise, but god it was a lot of fun. So thank you to Akemi for that! 
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy:

***

Our Story begins like this: 

It is just half past nine a.m. 

The sky is slightly overcast in the cold, gray way that February skies can be, where it feels like winter just won’t quite let go, no matter what the calendar reads. Beauty sleep complete, Lance has managed to roll out of bed, perform his morning skincare routine (his pores are clear, his skin is hydrated, he is all but  _ glowing _ ) and coordinate his Look for the day. He is just thinking about breakfast when movement outside the window catches his attention. 

There is a large black cat sitting in the window of one of the neighboring apartments. The cat’s eyes are closed as it basks in what little sunbeam is breaking through the clouds. All is peaceful, until: Out of nowhere, a kitten--- also pure black, a perfect miniature of the first--- joins the larger cat on the sill. 

The kitten is playful, and rude, and begins to bat the swishing tail of the cat. Nap disturbed, the cat is obviously annoyed, ears pinned, back hunched, ready to show the kitten who's boss. That is, until large hands pluck the unruly little thing from the windowsill. The man holds the offending kitten in one hand, too affectionate to be truly chastising, and lays another hand on the cat’s head, giving it a between the ears scritch before he walks away, out of sight. 

And. 

Lance narrows his eyes, moving so close to the window that the slats of the aluminum blinds are sharp against his forehead and chin. He can’t believe it. 

The blinds click-clatter as they swing back into place when Lance draws away. 

“Oh,  _ hell _ no. Not on my watch.” 

He swats the lightswitch on the way out, grabs his keys, and marches across the hall. 

*

“You have one guess for what I just saw, one guess!” Lance says, pushing open the door to Keith and Hunk’s apartment. 

Keith is sitting on one end of the couch, the different sections of Sunday’s paper strewn all across the coffee table in front of his knees. He has on his perpetual frown, which deepens into a grimace as Lance presses the door closed behind him with his foot. 

(And Lance has tried to help him plenty of times, okay? He’s been kind enough to explain the warning signs of pre-mature aging to Keith, and the not-that-difficult concept that if he continues to look like he’s constipated 24/7, he will definitely have forehead wrinkles deeper than the fucking Mariana trench by the time he’s forty. It’s useless. The dude is just beyond help.) 

“An eviction notice.” Keith deadpans, raising a section of the newspaper in front of his face. As if the guy actually reads. 

“Harhar, very funny Keith.” Undeterred, Lance shoo’s a dismissive wave in that general direction as he joins Hunk in the kitchen. 

“Morning, Lance,” Hunk says, concentration more or less taken up by the mixing bowl he has cradled in the crook of one arm. He peers over it to double-check the recipe card on the counter and then continues to whisk. 

“One guess!” Lance commands, reaching past Hunk to snag a piece of freshly cooked bacon. He pops it in his mouth. It could be more chewy---Hunk always makes it extra crispy, for some reason, practically burnt---but Lance isn’t one to complain. 

“Uhh---” Hunk pours batter onto a crackling hot griddle. “Uh--I dunno, Lance. What?” 

“That’s not a guess, technically,” Lance sighs. He motions Hunk to the side, just for a minute, so that he can get into the cabinet that has all the bowls. Then he scoots past him on the other side---it’s a shame the kitchens are so small in these apartments, but that’s life in your mid-to-late 20s, y’know, ‘specially here in the city---and rustles around in the pantry for the Count Chocula box. 

“I’ll give you a hint,” Lance tells them both, serious, as he finds the milk in the fridge. He pours it over the cereal and plinks a spoon in with his breakfast. (“You guys are almost out of milk, just so you know,” he tells them, sliding the carton back in the door in the fridge.) “Anyways,” Lance shoves a spoonful of cereal in his mouth and crunches, “Here’s your hint:” He opens his eyes wide, just as wide as they will go, and stares significantly at Hunk. 

He does not immediately answer. The griddle sizzles. Across the room on the couch, Keith swishes the pages of his newspaper. 

Lance adds more cereal to his mouth and crunches in irritation. He attempts to make the hint even  _ clearer _ by opening his eyes even  _ wider _ . 

“Okay, huh,” Hunk says, flipping over a pancake, “Uh. Eyes. You’re getting glasses.” 

“No!” Lance cries, “Here, Keith, did you see, this is the hint,” Lance turns to the couch and waits patiently until Keith lowers the newspaper enough to look at him. He makes the same wide-eyed look at Keith. 

_ What the fuck, _ Keith mouths under his breath, before going back to the paper. 

“You have pink-eye!” Hunk tries again. 

Lance makes a disgusted face. “What?! No!” 

“Or no, how about, you’re---” 

“I saw him again!” Lance cuts him off, waving the spoon above his head to really drive the significance of the event home. 

“Who?” Keith asks, because he’s hopeless at following along with even the most simple of narratives. 

“The Cat Guy!” Lance says.

He plops down on the couch next to Keith. It’s not because he wants to sit next to Keith, no way. It’s just that the middle cushion is the most comfortable. Keith not-so-subtly scoots farther away. Undeterred, Lance continues to shovel in his Count Chocula. 

“Oh, did you say hi?” Hunk asks. He’s finished with the first batch of flapjacks and moving on to the next. 

“Did I say hi---No! Hunk! Of course not! The guy is a felon!!” Lance sets the bowl down on the coffee table, earning a disparaging look from Keith. He primly moves his sections of newspaper out from under Lance’s cereal. Lance ignores him, as one should, and twists around to give Hunk a disbelieving look. “You can’t just  _ talk _ to the Cat Guy! That’s the whole point of the Cat Guy Thing!!” 

“Why though?” Hunk isn’t following.

“Our complex has a very strict No Pets Allowed policy!” Lance shouts, reminding these two of the lease which they clearly  _ did not read. _ He muses. “Well, on the other hand, they let you keep Keith, so it’s not that strict,” 

Keith gives Lance another nasty look, “More like they let  _ you _ in, because you’re…” he trails off, eyes scrunching as he thinks, “A pet.” 

“Good one, Keith!” Hunk says. 

Keith has the audacity to look mildly pleased with himself. 

“Yeah, whatever.” Lance frowns, “Anyways. The guy is a criminal. I, personally, do not hob-nob with those who break the law,” 

“Oh snap, do I smell bacon? And pancakes?!” The door to Keith and Hunk’s apartment swings open again, and Pidge busts in. (Honestly, she’s always coming in unannounced, Lance doesn’t understand why Hunk and Keith aren’t more strict with their guests.)

“Yeah!” Hunk nods, passing her a plate, “Blueberry, made from scratch!” 

Pidge cheers, dancing a little bit as she collects the stack of pancakes and smothers them in syrup. She hoists herself up to sit on one of the tall stools close to the kitchen counter---her legs dangle and Lance can see mismatched socks sticking out from her Sketchers platforms. Disastrous. “Thank you, Hunk! So what’d I miss? Who’s a criminal?” 

“Lance.” Keith says, apparently glad to fill her in, and yanno,  _ LIE.  _

“And what’s my crime,” Lance shoots back, leaning over to poke Keith’s cheek with his spoon. 

“Voyeurism.” 

Lance sputters. 

“No, no, I think that’s a sex thing,” Hunk defends Lance, 

“Thank you,” Lance says, 

“And we all know that Lance isn’t getting any,” Hunk continues, betraying Lance. 

Lance sputters, again. 

Pidge cackles and Keith looks far too smug. 

Honestly, Lance doesn’t know why he puts up with these people. 

“The Cat Guy, Pidge,” Lance says. Taking one for the team. Patiently setting the record straight. As always. “The guy who has all the cats and lives in the apartment across from mine?” 

Pidge shoves a wad of pancakes in her mouth. “Oh, what, is he like sacrificing them or something? Eating them?” 

“What!” Lance is horrified. 

“What the fuck,” Keith is equally horrified. 

“Gross,” Hunk comments. 

“Okay putting your heinous warped mind aside,” Lance says. “He has cats. Which is not allowed, because pets are not allowed,” 

(“But they let you in,” Pidge simpers, which Lance ignores, because they’ve already done that bit and it was old the first time,) 

“And even worse than that!” Lance stands up, looking at his friends to deliver the truly extraordinary part of this news. “I think he just brought home a new one! A kitten! That makes five! Five cats!” 

You see, Lance has been watching this guy for some time. The apartment complex they live in is shaped like a ‘U’ with Lance’s room in one arm of the U and the Cat Guy in the other. Directly across from him. There’s a patch of grass between the two sides, but it’s only a small sliver of land, so Cat Guy’s window is basically just a matter of feet away. 

Lance is the type of guy who is keenly observant anyways; not much gets past him. It only took about a month after he moved in before he realized that his across-the-way neighbor usually has his blinds up. And a big black cat was sitting in the window. 

Couple of days later he saw another one: an orange tabby. 

Then, 

A scruffy looking white cat. Big green eyes. 

One of those blue-gray cats with the short hair. (A “Russian blue.” Lance went into the pet store on the corner of 95th and Spruce to ask about it, because he had no idea blue cats were a thing. And also because the girl working there happens to be really hot.  _ Way _ hot. He did not, sadly, secure digits.) 

And most recently, the cat he spotted this very morning: an itty bitty kitten. Also black. 

That makes five different cats! 

“I mean, what the shiznit,” Lance says, slurping the last of the chocolate flavored milk from his cereal bowl, before he walks over and plunks it in the sink. Hunk is going to have a lot of dishes to do from making those pancakes. “How many illegal cats is this guy going to bring in?” 

“Why do you care?” Keith asks. 

“Uh! Hello!! Earth to Keith!” Lance waves his arms around. He doesn’t really have an answer so the flailing is a good substitute. 

“Right.” Pidge says, “Well, as fascinating as Lance spying on his neighbors is,” 

And from there the conversation moves elsewhere. 

And, if Lance were any other person, that might have been the end of it. 

But that would hardly be a story, would it? 

*

Keith shoves his fingers a little bit deeper into his pockets as he turns the corner, ready to make the two block walk to the nearest coffeehouse. It’s early February and, though the last bit of snow is no longer lingering in the shadows of skinny tree trunks and garbage cans, the wind still has enough chill in it to bite. 

But Keith walks fast, and the cold just makes the coffeehouse seem that much more inviting when he pulls open the door. There’s a little bell on the glass door, and when Keith walks inside, the bell chimes just as the air hits him, warm and heavy with the smell of freshly ground coffee beans. 

Toward the side of the room, there’s the bar with one of the three baristas, who alternate shifts depending on the day and time. Across the other side of the room, there’s a raised platform that acts as a stage where the shop hosts open-mic nights twice a week. (His not-quite-friend Allura often plays her guitar there with decent success, though Keith prefers the cafe on the days where it’s more quiet and less crowded.) A big, gray couch is situated in the middle of the room with pillows on it in varying colors and sizes. 

This is The Daily Grind in all her glory.

Once he has his usual order (coffee, large, with plenty of room for cream, and a muffin, chocolate chocolate-chip), Keith bypasses the noisey stage area and comfy couch and heads to the back corner of the cafe, where there’s a line of round tables, each one just big enough. 

He pulls the newspaper out from where it’s been tucked under his arm, takes a pen out from the inner pocket of his leather jacket. 

Sits. 

Opens up the paper, spreading it over the little round table. 

Frowns.

Reads: 

**_GARDEN MAINTENANCE_ **

_ Experienced in maintenance work such as lawn mowing, trimming, gardening, pruning of hedges, trim, and other maintenance and installation. Seasonal hire. Location: West River  _

Keith puts an ‘X’ through that box. He’s done plenty of odd jobs, but none of them involved keeping plants alive. Plus the West River means half his paycheck would get eaten up by bus fare. 

He chews on the end of his pen and moves on. 

**_SENIOR ADVISOR ASSISTANT_ **

_ A well established independent wealth management organization is seeking a qualified… _

No. No qualifications here. Keith ‘X’s that box too. 

**_RECEPTIONIST WANTED_ **

_ Our clinic is looking for a receptionist that is looking to grow with our center. This position is open for a driven, passionate, self-motivated individual who thrives in a multitasking environment. Strong communication skills a must.  _

Keith sighs. That sounds like a lot of horseshit for being overworked and underpaid. He doesn’t have a history of being great with people (that is, he’s gotten fired from his past four service industry jobs for ‘attitude problems’). And, his communication skills are probably more at a low to moderate skill level, if he’s being honest. But beggars can’t be choosers. He circles that box. 

After about ten minutes of squinting down at the tiny newsprint, there are only a couple more circles on the page. Keith sips his coffee and peels back the muffin wrapper. It’s a fresh one, which makes him lucky because they’re not always fresh this time of the week. 

Keith’s eyes flick to the door. He pushes back the sleeve of his jacket to check the time. 

He’s secretly been hoping that he’ll be lucky in one other thing too. 

Coming here and seeing him is one of Keith’s little indulgences, like the $2.12 he shouldn’t technically be spending on his coffee and muffin. 

But, 

The bell on the door jingles, 

And it’s so worth it. So, so worth it. 

He’s tall. 

That’s probably the most noticeable thing about Keith’s Indulgence as he ducks in the door. The barista is only slightly shorter than Keith, and she barely comes up to the man’s shoulder. 

The next thing a person might notice is that he has a wide scar across the bridge of his nose. Or maybe his prosthetic right arm---he always holds just a hair too tight to his body to make it look natural. 

Broad chest, cut waist, trim perfect ass. It’s impossible to tell right now, on account of his thick winter coat, but Keith knows from months of regular coffeehouse visits that the man has biceps that are nothing short of mouth-watering. 

Also,

His thighs. 

Keith shifts in his seat and tries not to make it obvious that he’s watching while the man places his order. 

Those things are just superficial though. Keith knows him better than that. 

He knows that the man comes here about three times a week, and he always orders the same thing: a dirty chai latte, skim milk, extra cinnamon on top. He sits in the back section (where Keith is currently seated) at the same table each time (it’s two tables away from Keith’s). 

He always comes alone. 

He writes. He has the same black notebook with him everyday. Keith doesn’t know if he’s a Writer or if he’s just making endless grocery lists, but fuck if the man doesn’t look gorgeous as he rolls the a pen between his fingers and stares off into space between words. 

He knows from snatches of conversations that the man was in the military and that’s how he lost his arm. He also knows that the man is snarky enough to bite back if rude people get too nosy. And that he seems to be stubborn enough that the injury doesn’t stop him from doing anything he wants to do. 

(One such example: the man will, occasionally, arrive on a motorcycle. Keith has to close his eyes and breathe deep on those days. Holy fuck.) 

He’s so goddamn  _ nice, _ Keith thinks, listening to the man make small talk with the barista, while doodling in the margins of the paper (so he doesn’t stare). She laughs at something the man said, tone dry, and the lines get blacker as Keith tightens his grip on the pen.  _ He’s funny too.  _

_ Fuck. He’s perfect.  _

Is what Keith is thinking, as the man carries a very full cup to one of the round tables close to where Keith is currently seated. 

But the tables are close together, and the man has his hands full, with his notebook tucked under his arm and the steaming hot latte in hand. He bumps into one of them, and being careful not to spill, the notebook slips out from his arm. 

“Shit,” the man swears, soft, under his breath, setting down the white saucer and the cup. 

The notebook drops close enough to Keith that he doesn’t even hesitate in sliding out of his chair and picking it up. It fell open when it landed, and as he lifts it off the floor, he catches a glimpse of the blocks of words inside. It’s not grocery lists, but it doesn’t look like he’s writing a novel either. 

“Thanks,” the perfect man says, leaning forward in a rush to collect the notebook as Keith stands up. The action is a bit too eager to look natural, almost nervous. And Keith would swear that the corners of the man’s ears are red. 

_ Cute, _ he thinks. 

And he gives the man a nod, grabs his paper, and bolts for the door. 

*

Back in Keith and Hunk’s apartment, 

Lance blows a raspberry into the empty room and sinks further down into the couch cushions. The traffic outside hums, punctuated with bark of car horns and the screech of shitty brakes. Lance sighs. He’s usually the one running late, but man, waiting on somebody kinda bites. He’s considering whether it would be worth his time to go out on the initiative, when, 

The key turns in the lock. Keith slips in the door, snaps on the light and moves to hang his coat in the closet. 

“Finally!” 

Keith jumps at the sound of Lance’s voice. For some reason, now he’s brandishing a pocket knife in front of him like he’s some kind of demented boyscout. 

(Lance is, thankfully, outside of stabbing range.)

“Take a chill pill, man,” Lance says, waving a hand. “It’s just me.” 

“Lance.” Keith snaps the knife closed and tucks it back to wherever he keeps it. “What the fuck are you doing on my couch. In the dark.” He frowns. “Wait. Where is Hunk?” 

Lance stands up and stretches, cracking his back. He ignores Keith’s question about Hunk because they both know that the things that occupy Hunk and Pidge’s time involve too many three-syllable science words to be intelligible 

“Uh helloooo, me and you made plans! You still owe me from last time? Remember?” Lance taps one finger against his temple. Honestly it’s a good thing that someone keeps track, because otherwise all these favors that Lance does would go unreciprocated. Jeez. 

“No.” Keith tosses his tragic hair (it’s a  _ mullet _ , god help him) out of his face, which is beet red for some reason. “I don’t.” 

“You have a fever or something, man? Why is your face all red, you look like a tomato.” Keith’s blush only deepens and he says something gruff and nonsensical about the coffeeshop. Lance doesn’t really get it, but he is also not concerned. Keith is inarticulate at the best of times. 

So ignoring that, Lance asks: “Wait, you don’t owe me, or you don’t remember?” 

Without waiting for a reply, he grabs Keith’s coat back out of the closet. He hands it to Keith. Like a gentleman. 

“Neither.” Keith frowns, holding the coat in his fist like he’s never seen a garment of clothing in his life, and has no idea what to do with it. “No. Both. Go back to your own place, Lance.” 

“Okay well.” Lance marches back to Keith’s room (Keith immediately starts swearing and swatting him out of there, but Lance more or less ignores that too) and pulls his overflowing laundry hamper out of his closet. It’s gross and smelly, but Lance makes no comment. Again, because he is a _ gentleman _ . Mama raised him with manners ‘n shit. (Also, his own laundry is just as bad. But that’s neither here nor there.) 

“First of all, we made plans to go to the laundromat together because it’s Twofer Tuesday and last time I spotted you three loads. Clearly you need to go, so don’t argue with me there.” 

Keith looks pained. 

Lance thinks Keith will be significantly less pained if his endless supply of second-hand Dickies, band tees, and flannel is clean, instead of piled up in a gigantic heap. This will be good for Keith. 

He throws an arm around Keith’s shoulder, 

“Second of all, we haven’t hung out in forever, you humongous buzzkill, you! It’ll be fun!” 

*

Somewhere between his room and the stairs down to street level, Keith decides that being forcibly dragged to the laundromat with Lance is the worst thing that has happened to him in recent memory. 

The QuikCoin is just about an eight minute walk down the street from their apartment complex, which is the only silver lining---if Keith were forced to travel any sort of distance with Lance, he probably wouldn’t survive. 

(Lance is easily the most inept driver in the city, if not the state. The last time Keith was unfortunate enough to ride passenger, he told Lance as much, to which Lance replied, “Stick it, Keith! You backseat drive worse than my granny!”) 

They get there, and Keith’s mood darkens from black to blacker. The glass door of the laundromat is foggy, the handle clammy to the touch. The sour smell of bleach and mildew greets them in time with the clunking whirr of off-kilter washing machines. Keith resolves to make the best of what is most likely going to be a bad situation, and hauls his laundry past the threshold onto speckled tile. 

The Twofer Tuesday deal means that the laundromat is crowded. A little old lady is folding towels on both of the green vinyl chairs, and a slew of kids are running between the wall of washers and the row of dryers. A young mother is making no attempt to quiet a wailing baby. A gaggle of college students have taken over the  _ one _ good table. On top of all that, there’s ‘Out of Order’ signs taped to the front of several of the machines, so they’ll have to wait. 

Lance is chattering about something: “---the new kitten. I bet you’re wondering how I figured it out! Well, Keith, it turns out that Lancey Lance is really---” 

“Did you remember to bring change?” Keith cuts off Lance’s constant word vomit. 

Lance raises his eyebrows. “Uh, no? You owe  _ me _ , remember?” 

Keith grits his teeth. He pulls out his wallet. 

He’s supposed to be job hunting today. Not babysitting the wack-job that lives across the hall. 

Lance peers over Keith’s hands to examine the contents of his wallet. “Dude, ya think you have enough ticket stubs in there? There’s practically no room for money!” 

Keith thumbs through scraps of paper and mementos from concerts and movies he’s liked, and peels out a few dollar bills. “Whatever. I’ll go get change.” 

He abandons Lance and their stuff, ducking past the shouting kids and taking care to avoid the weird, sticky stain on the floor, to find the back corner of the laundromat. 

There’s a couple of teens making out against the coin machine. Questionable location aside, it’s not a pretty thing. Keith grimaces. Barely kissing. More like, the guy is attempting to suck the girl’s face off, 

“Excuse me.” Keith scowls as they ignore him. “Hey. You. Move.”

The guy removes his hands from under the girl’s shirt and turns to size Keith up. Keith lifts his chin, meets the guy’s eyes with icy indifference. “Get out of the way. I just want change.”

Rolling her eyes, (and possibly sensing that Keith would have no problem knocking her boyfriend out cold), the girl taps the chest of her boyfriend to intervene. “James, don’t even.” She snaps her gum, pulling up her low-rise jeans by the scantest quarter inch. “Anyways, the machine is out of quarters,” 

“Just great.” Keith grits out, pushing the button just for good measure. She’s not lying, the change machine is either broken or empty. He ignores the stupid look on James’ face. He tromps back to Lance. 

Keith tells him about the lack of quarters. And then he tells him again, after Lance peels the headphones from his Walkman off his ears. He grins up at Keith from a plastic chair, obviously not overly concerned. 

“Aiight. There’s a convenience store a block away and they’ll make change. I’ll wait here and save our spot.” 

Without waiting for an answer, Lance slips the headphones back over his ears and gives Keith a thumbs up. 

Keith considers breaking his fingers, but decides better of it. 

Which is how Keith finds himself walking past The Daily Grind coffeehouse for the second time that day. 

The early morning before-work rush is long over, the late morning customers are gone, and the after work crowd is not yet arriving, so the coffeehouse is enjoying a lull. As he passes the large window that looks into the shop, Keith checks the back tables as a matter of course, but it seems like the man has gone home already. Focus diverted elsewhere, he’s not watching where he’s going, and it’s only thanks to the chime of the bells on the door that Keith doesn’t walk right into the man coming out.

Keith doesn’t trip, exactly, but he does find himself staring into a button down that just barely manages to cover the swell of pectorals that he, uh, happens to recognize. 

“Woah, sorry about that,” the man says, hand over Keith’s shoulder as if to steady him. 

Keith looks up from his chest. 

“Oh, oh! It--it’s you,” the man stammers. 

Keith has never heard him stammer before. 

“It’s me,” Keith agrees. He’s also never gotten close enough to see the blue-gray of his eyes, or the subtle swoop of purple under them, likely put there by late nights or early mornings. The dark circles lend a certain kind of realness to his otherwise chiseled features. It’s endearing. 

“From earlier,” the man continues, holding up his notebook, as if that’s an explanation.

_ From every good morning the past six months, _ Keith mentally corrects. 

“Keith,” he says instead, sticking out a hand. 

There’s a fraction of a second of hesitation, a flit of nerves over the man’s face, and then resolve replaces it. The man takes Keith’s hand; his prosthetic is cool to the touch but not unpleasant. “Shiro.” 

“Shiro,” Keith repeats and it feels like  _ something _ to have a name after all this time. Like a victory, the way it makes a quiet sort of satisfaction curl in Keith’s belly. Like a beginning, the way it leaves him hungry for more. 

“I know th---” Shiro pauses as a woman comes up to the coffeehouse’s entrance. Which they are blocking. Have been blocking. 

If it were anyone else Keith would protest, but he finds he doesn’t mind as Shiro’s hand brushes the small of his back as they step out of the entrance and onto the sidewalk. Shiro directs them under the eaves of a neighboring business, just out of the way of the busy sidewalk. 

“I think I’ve seen you before today,” Shiro tries again, while Keith is still processing the feeling of Shiro’s hand on him, of his arm almost looped around Keith’s waist, and how it might translate to being held. 

Good, his body is telling him. That would be good. 

“I’m something of a regular here,” Keith says. Uncharacteristically open, he adds, “Between jobs at the moment. So.” 

Shiro winces. “I know how that is. Hang in there, Keith.” 

And the sound of his name is perfect in Shiro’s mouth. 

And Keith has to duck his head to hide a smile at Shiro’s words. Because if anyone else said that to him, it’d be patronizing, but when Shiro says it, somehow, it’s not. It’s just. Sweet. 

“What kind of work are you looking for?” Shiro asks. 

Keith shrugs, hands once more in the pockets of his jacket. “Open to most things, really. I’ve done everything from desk work to car shops but nothing seems to stick.” He adds, as a joke, “My reputation tends to develop faster than my on-the-job training can fix.” 

He’s surprised with Shiro laughs; it seems like not many people  _ get _ Keith’s sense of humor. And the people who do, like Hunk, for example, it seems to take them a long time to come around. 

“You?” Shiro tilts his head, still smiling. “A bad reputation? I can’t imagine why,” 

Keith looks down to his beat-up Converses and favorite (most comfortable, but also faded) pair of jeans. He honestly can’t remember if he brushed his hair this morning. “I take offense at that.” 

“No, no, Keith,” Shiro says, catching his glance. “I mean, well. You’re a little,” he hedges, deciding on the word, “Unapproachable.” 

“First I’ve heard of it,” Keith deadpans and is captivated when Shiro laughs again. He feels heat crawl up his neck and rise in his cheeks, even against the cool air. It’s not a bad feeling. Just different. 

Shiro bites his lip, cutting off a grin. “But that doesn’t matter. I should know.” He lifts his prosthetic and wiggles his fingers before tucking it close to his side again. 

It’s the perfect segue for Keith to ask about his injury, but Keith doesn’t take it. He gets the feeling that Shiro would rather tell him of his own volition. 

The door to the coffeehouse opens again, and a couple walks out. They pass Shiro and Keith, the hum of conversation behind them fades as the door swings shut again. 

Shiro says, and his voice goes soft, almost lost between the door closing and the thrum of cars passing by, “I’m a good judge of character. You don’t deserve a bad reputation.” 

And that’s ridiculous because he’s only just met Keith. And what does he know? But Keith can’t find it in himself to scoff. Not at that. Not when it comes from Shiro. “Thanks, Shiro.” 

Shiro takes the pen out of the spiral of his notebook, and flips to a clean page. “I can’t make any promises, but I know a lot of people downtown. I’m sure someone is hiring. If you want, I can pass your info around?” 

Keith takes the pen and notebook. “Wait.” He blinks. Looks up at Shiro. “Are you asking for my number?” 

Without missing a beat, Shiro replies. “If yes means you’ll give it to me, then. Yes. I am.” 

And he winks. 

Praying that the flush on his face isn’t visible, Keith swallows. He writes his number down, clicks the pen a couple times, and wets his lips. And on impulse, Keith makes a decision. He says, “You can use it too. So you know. Not just for,” he inhales, so that the next part comes out in a rush. “Passing.” 

Shiro opens his mouth and shuts it, teeth snapping together. “I’ll--I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Keith nods. He points in the general direction of the convenience store. “I have to---” 

And he bolts. 

*

(Keith doesn’t get quarters. 

Keith doesn’t return to the laundromat.

Actually, it might be true that Keith didn’t intend to return in the first place, but who can say for sure?

Moving on,) 

*

Lance cannot believe it. 

Abandoned! 

On Twofer Tuesday!! 

“By Keith!!” He shouts, lugging two very full laundry hampers of clothes back to the apartment complex. 

Alone! 

(The clothes in the hampers are washed, dried, and folded, by the way. Lance had plenty of quarters in his pocket the entire time.) 

He’s grousing under his breath the entire walk home, every single grievance he’s ever had against Keith at the forefront of his mind---that time that Keith ate the pack of Twinkies which Lance was saving, the creepy pout thing that he does with his mouth while he reads, his nasally laugh, the time that Keith told Christie (who was totally into Lance!) that Lance was going out with Monica---so what if Lance scheduled two dates with two different girls in the same day, that’s just good time management! Anyways, Keith’s crooked teeth, his wack haircut, the way he hunches up and gets all prickly at the slightest provocation, like a---

Lance is so caught up with dragging Keith in his mind that he doesn’t see the man until they’re both walking into the apartment complex lobby. 

“ _ I winked, oh god, I winked, why did I wink, _ ” the man is muttering under his breath, apparently not seeing Lance either.  _ “Just let me be free from this agony, release me from this misery, let me go, let me rest, for fuck’s sake, I winked, why, ”  _

But Lance is hardly paying attention to what the man is saying. His eyes bug out as the man passes right next to him. Because. 

It’s the Cat Guy!! 

After months of watching him through the blinds, Lance would recognize him anywhere! Also, the economy sized bag of Meow Mix that the man is currently carrying is kiiiiiinda a dead giveaway. 

_ In plain sight, _ Lance glowers, watching as the seemingly distraught man hikes the bag of kitty chow up on his shoulder.  _ He’s taunting every law abiding citizen! Just look at him! _

And Lance is so full of vitriol from being stood up at the laundromat and also a little bit sweaty from carrying around all this laundry that he thinks:  _ now is the time. I’m going to confront Cat Guy once and for all.  _

So when the man steps into the apartment complex’s ancient elevator, Lance is hot on his heels. He pushes the hampers in the door, stomps in afterwards and jabs the ‘close door’ button. 

He turns to the Cat Guy. 

And he says, forcefully, demanding a reply: 

“I know your secret.” 

The man turns his attention to Lance. The Meow Mix slips lower down his arm and he frowns as he adjusts it. “What?” 

Lance straightens his back and says, cooly, “I know your secret.” 

Except for, 

The Cat Guy is bigger up close. Like, a lot bigger. Way bigger. 

Like. Muscles, and, 

He’s a head taller than Lance and very. Very. Broad. 

Lance swallows. “Uh.” 

“My secret?” Cat Guy is puzzled. 

Lance motions to the contents of his arms. 

“You know Keith?” 

Lance raises an eyebrow. What does he have to do with anything? “Uh, yeah?” 

The man seems to pale. He approaches Lance. “You know about---?”

Lance nods. And takes a step away. His back is pressed to one wall of the elevator. Cat Guy towers over him. The light flickers overhead. 

“If you know, then you have to promise---swear you won’t tell him. Keith can’t know.” 

Lance is so intimidated at this point, that it doesn’t even register that Cat Guy shouldn’t care that  _ Keith in particular _ knows about his cats. He nods, meek, and says, “I, um. Sorry. But I already told him.” 

The man actually staggers, and Lance swears that he feels the rickety old elevator hitch. Lance thinks to himself: _ I am going to die here.  _

Cat Guy rests the back of his head against the wall and closes his eyes. “My life.” 

He stands and focuses all his attention on Lance. 

Lance covers his face with his hands. “Don’t kill me!” The cat guy takes another step forward and Lance continues, wailing, “I’m a lover, not a fighter!” 

The elevator stutters to a stop and pings as the doors open. 

Before Cat Guy can release his unholy rage, Lance grabs the laundry and rushes out into the hall. 

*

He doesn’t go back to his place, because obviously, it’s not safe. Cat Guy can just look through the windows and see Lance. He’s a sitting duck! In his own home! 

He rushes into Hunk and Keith’s apartment instead. 

Lance pushes the laundry in, chest heaving, and slams the door behind him. 

He twists the deadbolt, jiggles the door. 

“Oh hey Lance,” Hunk choruses from the sofa. 

Lance waves behind him instead of answering. He peers through the peephole. Seems like the coast is clear. For now. He jiggles the door again. Hardly secure. “The lock on your door is weak, you should get this fixed, who knows who could come in here,”

Neither Hunk or Keith respond. Lance pauses. Stands up. Because, 

This is the part where normally Keith would say something like, “I was just thinking that.” Or maybe: “Yeah, tell me about it,” Or just snort and ignore Lance. Really any kind of sour-faced grumpy reaction a person could think of. But at the moment, he doesn’t do anything at all. 

Lance turns around. 

Keith is sitting in his spot on the couch, but he’s not reading the paper anymore. Or watching one of the weird movies he likes. Or talking to the fish in his weird fish tank that he obsesses over as a hobby. Instead he has his head in his hands. Hunk is sitting close to him, one hand on his back. 

“Did something happen?” Lance asks, mind immediately cycling through numerous possibilities. “O-M-G this is why you abandoned me on Twofer Tuesday! Did you get bad news? Did someone say something mega harsh about your hair? Not that it wouldn’t be justified but, still. Holy shnikes, is Hunk finally kicking you out?!” 

Keith lifts his head to glare at Lance. And also to give him two middle fingers. 

Hunk pats his back. “No one is kicking anyone out, Lance. Keith is just overwhelmed. There’s a guy that he likes.” 

Lance plops down on the coffee table, narrowly avoiding tipping it over. “ _ Keith _ likes someone?  _ Keith _ felt an emotion? Oh snap,” 

Keith ignores him. 

“He winked,” Keith sighs, slumping back to rest his head on the back of the sofa. He crosses his arms and frowns up at the ceiling as though it has personally offended him. “He winked and he’s gorgeous and I gave him my number and he’s perfect and he winked and I panicked,” 

“I’m sure it was completely normal,” Hunk reassures. “Like, it can’t have been that bad, right?” He looks at Lance. 

Lance makes a face and raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, like,  _ well… _

But, no, for real, this is a big deal! In all the years that Lance has known Keith, and letsee, he started coming over here shortly after him and Hunk moved in, so that’s like, what? Two years? Three years? Lance has never seen him warm up to anybody. He’s a little, cranky, knife-wielding, hermit crab of a guy. He’s picky. If Keith likes somebody, then they must be really special. Keith deserves that! And Lance wants to help! 

“Anyways!” Lance claps his hands. No sense in focusing on the past. It’s over now. “You’re actually super lucky, Keith! I mean, check it out, you have Loverboy Lance, _ right here,  _ ready to give you advice!” 

Keith groans. 

“I mean, I’m not into dudes, but like, it can’t be that much harder than chicks right?” Lance shrugs. “Dudes are probably easier, actually. So that’s lucky too. And I’m a pro at getting dates. Hell, I can even wingman for you! I promise if he’s more into me, which I mean, is likely, I’ll be like, no, no, I mean, I’m flattered, but it’s my buddy Keith that you want.” Keith says nothing to this generous offer, so Lance continues: “With me at your side, there’s no doubt! You’ll have this guy in no time!!” 

“Lance is good at getting first dates,” Hunk agrees. He winces. “The second ones, not so much…but---” 

Keith groans louder. 

Lance ignores both of them. He pats Keith on the knee. “C’mon buddy, it’s alright,” 

“Touch me again Lance, and I’ll break your arm.” 

“Okay, see, this is what we need to work on, Keith.” 

On the coffee table next to Lance, the phone rings. 

Keith sits up. 

The three of them look at each other. 

“It couldn’t be…” Keith says. 

“I mean it could,” Lance points out, diplomatically. 

“It might just be Pidge,” Hunk muses, making no move to answer it. 

“You have to answer it,” Lance tells him.

“Nuh uh, not me,” Hunk says. 

The phone rings. Again. 

“If you don’t answer it, I will!!” Lance threatens, hand hovering over the receiver. “Keith, don’t make me do this---” 

“You better not,” Keith growls, scrambling to his feet. “Lance!” 

Lance gives him his best shit-eating grin and moves to pick up the phone. Keith lunges, grabbing it out of Lance’s reach as the phone trills out its third ring. 

He picks it up and holds the receiver next to his ear. “Hello?” 

He straightens up and cradles the receiver between his shoulder and ear, carrying the handset away from the couch. “Yes, this is Keith.” 

Lance feels his eyebrows disappear into his hairline as: 

Keith actually  _ smiles.  _ He turns around so that his back is to the couch with Hunk and Lance. And into the phone, he says, “Hi Shiro.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s good.”

“No. This is a fine time.” 

“Sure.” 

“Oh--oh. Really? I don’t usually,” 

“No, no, it’s not---I mean, I don’t---” 

“Shiro. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I wanna go. I’d love to.” 

“Okay. That works. That, uh, sounds great.” 

“Yeah?”

“I’m really excited too.” 

“Thanks for calling,” 

“Mmm. Yeah.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“Yeah, Shiro. Of course.” 

“See you soon.” 

And Keith plunks the receiver back into the handset. 

And he turns around. 

His face is red the same way it was this morning after the coffeehouse. He runs a hand through his hair, smile still lingering around the edges of his lips. Until he notices Hunk and Lance staring. The soft look disappears. He scowls. 

“Close your mouth,” he grumbles at Lance. 

Lance closes his mouth. He looks, wide-eyed, at Hunk. And then back to Keith. “I cannot believe---if my own eyes did not just witness---I would  _ not _ believe---” 

“See Keith!” Hunk smiles up at him from the couch. “You were worried about nothing!” 

*

Keith finds himself walking to The Daily Grind for the third time in one day. 

It’s not quite evening yet, but the shadows are growing long on the sidewalk and the windchill has increased twofold. Keith has his jacket zipped up to his chin, and he’s thankful he threw a sweater over the plain tee shirt he was wearing earlier. He wishes that he grabbed a hat too. There’s a slight rain coming down, a light sprinkle that might turn into snow as the night goes on. For now, the cars rush through the slick on the road, yellow headlights jumping over the uneven pavement. 

Despite the weather, Keith finds Shiro standing outside the coffeehouse, just barely within the glow of the front window. Keith sees him before he sees Keith, and Keith takes a moment to enjoy the way Shiro has his face tilted towards the sky. He has the black notebook tucked under one arm---Keith is yet to see him without it---and he has his head tilted back, watching the way the dark clouds are slowly rolling in. His expression is quietly preoccupied, like it gets while he writes. 

Keith feels his heart bump a little faster in his chest. This is really happening. 

“Shiro,” Keith calls, running up to meet him. He takes a hand out of his pocket to wave, just slightly. This is really happening.

“Keith!” Shiro leans towards Keith’s voice, an easy grin taking over his face. “You made it!” 

Keith nods, of course. Truth be told, after Shiro extended the invitation, nothing could have stopped him. Nothing. No one. “You didn’t have to wait outside; it’s cold out here,” 

“I’d have gone inside if it got too bad,” Shiro promises in a way that means he really wouldn’t have. 

Keith knocks a shoulder against him in response, shaking his head. He pulls open the door with Shiro trailing behind him. Again, Shiro places a light hand against the small of his back as he follows close behind. Again, the touch feels familiar rather than stifling. Safe, almost. Keith finds himself leaning into it. If asked, he would blame the need for closeness on the fact that the coffeehouse is strangely crowded. 

(It has nothing to do with the many people pressed into the small coffee shop.) 

Keith tilts his head up to look at Shiro behind him. “Let me buy you a drink to help you warm up,” 

“No, Keith,” Shiro shakes his head, dark brows pulling together as he pouts. “I asked. My treat.” 

Keith is stubborn as he shuffles into the line at the counter. Shiro stays close at his side. 

The crackling music overhead is noticeably absent over the din of the crowd. Towards the stage area, there’s an employee setting up a sound system. It’s an open mic night, no wonder it’s packed.

“I usually only come in the mornings,” Keith says, “so I’ve never seen it like this.” 

Shiro nods. “It’s a full house tonight. Do you see a place to sit near the stage?” he asks. 

Keith shifts to the side, standing up on his toes to look over Shiro’s shoulder. “No---oh yeah. There is one.”

“Great. Will you snag it for us, Keith? Just tell me what you want to drink and I’ll meet you there.” 

Keith looks at the till and back at Shiro. They haven’t ordered yet. “You think you’re being sneaky but I see what you’re doing,” 

Shiro makes a (very obviously contrived) innocent face, 

“Just surprise me,” Keith says. Completely and totally charmed. He coughs, trying to hide what feels like the most dopey smile. “And next time, I buy.” 

The tips of Shiro’s ears are red again, Keith notes, as sputters and nods in response. “Got it.” 

It’s too much. Keith has to duck his head and run a hand over his mouth to keep from grinning. He tries to school his expression into something normal as he nods, and then makes his way through the crowds. 

Keith reaches the last open table in the coffeehouse in just the right amount of time it seems. A guy comes up and asks if he’s using the second chair, and Keith shoots him the nastiest look, an answer in and of itself. He shrugs off his coat and places it over the second chair, just to be sure. 

One of the baristas hops on stage and introduces herself as Romelle. She’s blonde and bouncy and Keith recognizes her as the one who works every single Wednesday morning and most Fridays. She greets the crowd and says a few things about the cafe which Keith mostly doesn’t hear over the conversations of the people around him. There’s talking and laughing; it’s loud, much louder than the quiet atmosphere Keith is used to in the morning. But he finds himself relaxed all the same. There’s more than a few familiar faces in the crowd. 

Conversations quiet as Romelle steps down, and a girl with purple hair and a lot of eyeliner takes her place on the stage. She’s holding an acoustic guitar. 

Shiro returns with their drinks as the girl starts to strum. 

“Hot chocolate,” he murmurs close to Keith’s ear before sliding into the chair next to him. “Okay?” 

Keith nods, popping open the lid to take a swipe of the whipped cream with his finger. “My favorite,” he tells Shiro, serious. 

Shiro beams. 

Keith lifts the cup to his mouth and has to concentrate on not spilling it as he takes a sip, because how is this man so completely, ridiculously, _ fucking _ perfect? 

“She plays every week,” Shiro whispers at Keith. He takes a sip of his own hot chocolate before tilting close so that they’re watching the stage together. “She’s gotten pretty good.” 

“Huh,” Keith says, because the guitarist on stage is fine, but he’s more taken with Shiro being so close that he can smell him---the sticky-sweet milky chocolate, and sharp aftershave, and the deep smell of wind and chill and rain. He adjusts his chair to sit a little closer. Looks back to the stage and hopes he’s not obvious. “Sweet.” 

After the girl there’s a man with long platinum hair in a ponytail who trounces on stage and starts playing the flute. He has a terrible British accent and seems to be very into himself as he keeps interrupting his own song with drawn out explanations. It’s really fucking bizarre and Keith has to remind himself not to be an asshole about it---until he sees Shiro barely holding it together. 

“Don’t laugh,” Keith hisses under his breath, elbowing Shiro. 

Shiro snorts, and turns towards Keith, half burying his face in Keith’s shoulder. “I can’t,” he wheezes. 

Keith bites his lip and shushes Shiro as best he can until the Obnoxious Flute Man finishes. 

“Ooookay,” Romelle bounces back onto stage. “Thank you.” She gives another introduction---this time a girl is reading a poem. 

Shiro shifts in his seat, straightening up. He arranges his notebook on the table in front of him. He lifts his cup of hot chocolate and then sets it back down without taking a sip. His whole mood seems to have changed. 

“What is it?” Keith asks him, leaning close. 

Shiro gives him a side eye and clears his throat, eyes on the stage. “Nerves? Probably nerves. Definitely nerves.” 

“Nervous?” Keith smiles. “Why? You don’t have to be nervous because of me, Shiro.” 

Shiro huffs out a dry laugh. “You say that, but.” 

The girl on stage finishes her piece. Her voice trembles and her eyes look a bit watery, but she smiles as she steps down. 

Romelle hops back up onto the stage. “Ah. Chills. That was beautiful. Thank you, so much.” she adjusts the mic so that it’s slightly higher. “Our next artist is someone who’s never shared with us on open mic night before, so I’m really excited to welcome him to the stage. Shiro,” 

And. 

Keith frowns, 

He thinks he must have misheard. But. As he turns to Shiro, he sees him swallow. Prosthetic hand curl into a fist. 

He’s frozen as Shiro stands up next to him. 

Barely feels it as Shiro squeezes his hand as he leaves their table. 

Watches, half confused, as Shiro threads his way through a few tables to the platform with the microphone. 

“Thanks, Romelle,” Shiro breathes into the mic once he’s climbed up on stage. It’s still too short for him, so he has to lean down a bit. He smiles, self conscious. He flips open his notebook, clears his throat, “I wrote this not too long ago. I never thought I’d be sharing it like this. But. I realized. Today. I want to.” He slips the mic out of the stand, and straightens his shoulders, like confidence is easy. 

His voice is steady. Full. He reads, 

_ “I saw you _

_ over steam, crumbs, newspaper printed _

_ in June _

_ with a jangle of keys  _

_ in your pocket in August.  _

_ Like _

_ that same receipt (order tried and true)  _

_ Letters and numbers forming a verse all their own, _

_ and I wanted to write that,  _

_ The kick of my heartbeat, the metal zinging in  _

_ my veins. I wanted to write _

_ that _

_ the one, the order, the letters that sounded like your voice. _

_ November, December, _

_ (and I remember the first time I saw you smile,  _

_ the dimple in your cheek surprising,  _

_ but not at all)  _

_ Black ink against white paper _

_ in January. _

_ Simple, like the way I learned _

_ to love the way you look  _

_ down, and to the side,  _

_ stuck somewhere _

_ all those months. _

_ Like words to the back of my teeth.  _

_ The paper says it’s February now.  _

_ This time _

_ I wanted to say  _

_ I saw you.”  _

Shiro closes the notebook. 

He looks at Keith. 

And there might be whispers, there might be clapping, there might be conversations, shuffling, people ordering drinks, the chime of the bells on the door as people come and go, the sound of traffic outside…

There might be any of that, but Keith doesn’t hear it. 

He stands. 

Shiro steps off the platform. 

He doesn’t make it back to the table, because Keith is already there, meeting him halfway. 

“Keith,” Shiro begins. “I---” 

Keith pulls him down, wraps arms around Shiro’s neck, and presses a kiss into his mouth. 

He can feel Shiro huff out a smile. He leans down, opening his mouth, relaxing into Keith. When he places a hand against Keith’s cheek, Keith can feel that Shiro’s hand is trembling. 

He places his own over it. 

Shiro pulls away, lips still parted, not just his ears are red anymore. 

“Shiro,” Keith says, squeezing his hand, 

“Yeah--yes?” 

“Let’s get out of here,” 

And Shiro nods, and Keith is pulling them out the door. 

They go out into the dark and the cold and Keith’s cheeks are burning and his heart is beating and his mind is racing, 

“Keith, were you---did I,” Shiro follows after him, breathless, “Did I embarrass you? I thought you knew?” 

“No. Yes,” Keith is half laughing and he drops Shiro’s hand and runs a hand through his hair, ducking his head. “How would I have known?” 

And Shiro might be trying to explain, but Keith is too impatient to listen. Not when Shiro is right here, breathless, golden in the streetlight, flushed and perfect. He pulls Shiro down a second time, kisses him, mouth open, pulse racing. 

Shiro groans as Keith pushes him against the building, cold hands pulling warmth from Shiro’s skin. He has his hands against Shiro’s jaw, fingertips dipping into the prickly hair of his undercut. 

Shiro leans forward, catching the pleased sigh that escapes from Keith when he tucks the hand at the small of Keith’s back under his jacket. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, 

Keith pulls away, presses a softer, sweeter kiss to the edge of his mouth.  _ I saw you too,  _ he thinks.  _ But more than that, I wanted you. Like this. And now...  _

It’s gratifying, like the way Shiro’s large hand has settled on Keith’s hip. It’s perfect like the way his name sounds in Shiro’s voice. 

“Let’s get out of the cold.” 

Keith straightens up. “I’m not going back into that coffeehouse again today.” 

Shiro blinks. A smile curls over his lips. “My place?” 

Keith nods. 

They begin to walk. 

Shiro’s hand dips down to circle around Keith’s wrists, shy over his palm until Keith knits their fingers together. 

“I miss my hot chocolate,” Shiro sighs, tugging Keith along. “I should have drank more of it when I had the chance.” 

Keith tilts his head up to fix Shiro with a look. He’s definitely joking. “You’re there everyday. Just get one tomorrow.” 

Shiro laughs, pulling Keith a little closer. Keith squeezes his hand. “Or, you know.” He smirks. “I’ve been known to make coffee at home.” 

“I’d miss the coffeehouse.” Shiro says. He’s doing a poor job of hiding a smile. “The view.” 

Keith huffs out a laugh. He’s ridiculous. He’s perfect. “Again.  _ I’ve _ been known to make coffee at home.” 

Shiro dips down, fast as anything, and presses a kiss to Keith’s mouth. “That sounds like an offer, Keith.” 

Keith hums. It does. It is. 

It’s strange that Shiro turns towards the block that Keith’s apartment complex is on. Stranger still that they seem to be...neighbors?

He blinks as Shiro types in the code to his own apartment lobby. Very close neighbors. Huh. 

“Have you always written poetry?” Keith asks as the conversation lulls. They walk into the stairwell. 

Shiro laughs. “Fuck no.” 

Keith’s sneakers squeak over the tile as the two of them climb the stairs. 

Shiro is thoughtful when he responds, “In school I was something of a,” he grins at Keith, “troublemaker,” 

“Can’t picture that,” Keith smirks, 

Shiro winks at him. “Definitely no time for poetry. But after,” he lifts up his arm, the prosthetic, and wiggles his fingers, “My therapist suggested it. I needed to get out of the house more and the coffee shop is nearby, so that made it easy. And she said that poetry---even bad poetry---can be a good way to sort through emotions. So I started writing.” 

They exit the stairwell at the third floor. Keith’s floor. Crazy that they lived this close all this time! But then Shiro heads right where Keith’s room is to the left, in the other half of the building. 

“Keith,” Shiro continues, “I know we just met. But. Writing saved me. You saved me.” 

Keith swallows, pausing. He thinks about how easy it is to talk to Shiro. How everything with him feels natural and right. Perfect. Like Shiro laughing at his jokes. Like them living so close together. Finding each other. He thinks that this is the beginning of something huge. He thinks that finally, finally, he might have found a place with someone where he fits just right. He thinks that maybe, maybe they saved each other. 

“Oh.” Shiro continues, like he didn’t just light up Keith’s whole heart like the wildest flame. “I have cats. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Keith looks at Shiro, so open and hopeful and, yeah,  _ perfect, _ and he smiles. He’s actually more of a dog guy. But cats, he thinks, he can learn to love. 

*

It’s just shy of nine p.m. and, 

Lance is looking out his window again. 

And he’s having an out of body experience. 

That’s the only explanation for this. He’s seeing things. Hallucinations. This is a mirage. A dream state. A glitch in reality. Like someone is going to jump up out of nowhere like “SIKE!!”

He closes his eyes. Counts to three. Opens them again. 

Nope. 

This is really happening. 

Keith. Okay. Keith. The Keith we all know and love. Keith with the bad hair. Keith who stands up incredibly thoughtful neighbors on Twofer Tuesday. 

That Keith. 

Keith is with the Cat Guy!!!! 

The CAT GUY! 

This isn’t---this doesn’t---

Didn’t Keith have a hot date tonight? What?!

And, 

Keith is smiling and that’s kinda bogus, because, Keith smiling twice in one day? Real weird. Unheard of, basically. 

_ Okay, _ Lance thinks, leaning forward, eyes narrow,  _ the Cat Guy is smiling too. _ They’re laughing. They’re leaning close. They seem to be talking. 

No, wait. 

That’s….not talking. 

That’s definitely not talking. 

Keith has his arms around the guy’s neck, smooching all tender and sweet, until Lance spies one of his hands dip down and get a handful of chest, okay, get it Keith, 

And then his mouth is moving down, Cat Guy is definitely into it, Jesus, the way Keith’s kissing, god _ damn _ Cat Guy is gonna have a hell of a hickey….

And. 

His hands are on Keith’s ass. 

They break apart, and Lance thinks,  _ okay, _ but then, 

Keith is pulling his own shirt over his head. 

Pushing him back over the couch. 

Climbing on top of him. 

Uh. Well. Okay. That’s...

Lance blinks. Makes a face. Takes a moment to weigh his options. 

He sighs. 

Closes the blinds. Steps away. 

And he decides that neighbors are sometimes best left alone. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Some fun facts for you:   
> -shiro and keith become mini celebrities at the daily grind and it’s really awkward because every single regular there AND the staff was rooting for them and knew about their mutual pine   
> -The names of shiro’s cats which I never worked into the story but loved all the same: Nectarine, Sir Sniffs a Lot, Joey, Miss Tits, and the kitten is called Valentine (because Shiro adopted her right before valentines day, aka at the beginning of this story)   
> -Lance continues to be Like That even after he meets shiro officially and learns that he and keith are dating 
> 
> *
> 
> Thank you to the mods of the sheithlentines exchange! I am very new to taking part in fandom events, but the sheith community as a whole has been so kind and lovely to me. thank you mods for all that you do for these events. And thank you to everyone who read my fic, I appreciate you so much!! <3 leave me a comment or kudos if you like, it would make me happy :>
> 
> I am [jacqulinetan on twitter](https://twitter.com/jacqulinetan)! if you'd like to see many retweets of keith and cats, I can assure you, I will provide lol


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